An Orphan's Musings
by Folaan
Summary: A humorous, if not altogether light, description of Dear Harry Potter, fate's puppet, from his POV. Not terribly heavy, and hopefully you'll have a smile on your face after reading it. Hermione will appear, albeit sporadically.
1. The Proper Idiocy of Mankind

A/N: This will be my first multichaptered fic but won't be too long. As it is, it should be about 5 chapters in length, with a total of 20k words or thereabouts.

1. The proper idiocy of mankind.

You know, I thought for a time, as a child, that we little kids had it good. Metaphorically speaking of course. Y'see, the telly was always playing some such movie that my cow of an aunt liked to watch and in those movies the kids, more often than not, were spoiled rotten. "They are such a joy", or my personal favorite, "He/She is so cute!". You'd think that this is the way that people treat kids, right?

No. Hell, fucking, no.

No, you don't treat kids that way. First you lock'em up in a cupboard under the stairs for a decade, just to "show this good for nothing piece of shit" how much you _love_ him. Then, when the little sucker is four years-old, give him a pan, open a cookbook and tell him to make breakfast. And lunch. Throw in dinner for good measure. When it obviously turns out something that a stray pig wouldn't dare eat, show him the belt because, of course, you, the sucker, can't get anything right.

You're a freak.

The people you approach in school flee from you. That's not because you stink or is ugly. It's because your fat cousin, spoiled like every other children in the telly, gives them all the "good one two" as uncle Vernon liked to say. Not my fault but being a love-denied kid led me to thinking that it was my fault somehow. I mean, it _was_ because of me that Dudley kicked their arses, and just because I wanted some companionship. It isn't much to ask, right?

It is, apparently. Throughout school, well the normal muggle school, no one dared approach me for whatever reason. Add to that the fact that the Dursleys' were well liked in the society here. That always seemed strange to me. I mean, the principal was on and on about them, like the sun shone out of their arseholes (consider the amount of body fat you'd have to remove to actually see that. Disturbing thought, right?), but I always wondered why uncle Vernon was always carrying a rather stuffed envelope back to school whenever Dudley got into some sort of trouble. He seemed to like the telly though, spewing yet another idiocy: "An upstanding family, yes sir!", "Such a smart kid you have there Mr. Vernon!". Another cliché.

That was my school life in a nutshell.

When he's six, deny him lunch and dinner because the freak couldn't mow the lawn as specified for the Little Whinging Lawn Competition. Never mind telling the fat-brained walrus that the mower was a cheap ass one that didn't have any way whatsoever to regulate the trimming. So yes, it wasn't at a fucking one inch, three-quarters.

No inch, three-quarters? No fucking food, freak.

Y'see, at that time, I didn't care too much about all this. I existed, simply put. The usual, you know? Wake up, make breakfast, do the dishes, go to school, get back from school, make lunch, clean the house, wash the linens, hang the linens, take a shower, make dinner, go to sleep. Rinse and repeat.

When I was eight though, I started to get... annoyed. Odd things happen when I get annoyed by the way. Plates fly, the door to my bedroom vanishes, my hair refuses to be cut. If it's strange, name it: I've probably done it. That was also the year in which the freakiest thing happened much thanks to my obese cousin.

The Harry Hunting game was tradition, way back from when I was six years old. Dudley would get his telly-stereotypic friends and they would all gang up on me. Ran after me, beat me sideways, from Sunday to next Saturday and then they'd leave. Needless to say, I didn't like the game.

So, we are back at when I was eight. In that particular Tuesday, Dudley was being brave. My guess is that he wanted to show his friends that he could beat me up in the middle of school and nothing would happen to him. So, true to form, off they went to get me. I did what was the fastest way to lose them, and a trait that saved my arse on more than one occasion in the future. I ran said arse off. I am thankful for all the physical training they did to me. Strange thing, to thank people for their own failings as human beings, huh? Well, life is strange like that. Specially where I'm concerned.

Anyways, after a particular tough escape, I found myself at a dead end. The only part of the building that I could see was the roof. Hearing their steps getting closer I was faced with a difficult decision: a) be beaten to a pulp or b) get desperate.

Desperation won fair and square. I didn't fancy having to mend my broken fingers yet again, thank you very much. Desperation plus roof visualization equals Harry on top of the building.

That was the highlight of my life at that point.

It didn't turn out good enough though. Getting there was unexplainable and this created another mess that the esteemed Dursleys' had to solve with the added prejudice that I was the one causing it. Ended with a good 10 minute belt-flogging and another broken finger.

That was a turning point for me. I may have created a ruckus, but it was Dudley being the ever present nuisance. I just wanted to escape. Well, I escaped the son just to meet with the father's prowess at making me feel so very _loved_.

After that episode I just wanted to avoid them as much as possible. That and going whenever I could to the neighborhood library. Not because I loved books, but it was the only respite I could get that came along with a plausible excuse: schoolwork. Plus, whatever I did that was to stay away from them for any length of time would appeal too much for them to pass up. So, off to the local library I went.

Mr. Collins, the librarian, was a nice guy, not even remotely as spooky as Madam Pince. That guy could compete with Hermione and would, possibly, come ahead. Never seen such a book nerd all my life, Hermione included. The difference between my bookworm friend, the constipated librarian and him? He, more than merely loving books, cherished them and wanted to share with everybody the experience that was reading a good book. As much as I love Hermione and respect Pince, they have a sick relationship with books. They are jealous of them. Hold them like a lifeline they do. It isn't healthy, and doesn't instill any passion for an outside observer. They don't want to share them, at all. Very egotistical if you ask me. Don't get me wrong, I lo- eh... like my best friend, but it's true.

So, Mr. Collins, the book freak (it was nice having another freak to relate to, despite him being in his fifties already) and I had a deal. Seeing my lost look when I entered there the first time, he took it upon himself, with all the seriousness of an unbreakable vow, to show me the wonderful world of books. In turn, once a week, he would ask me about them and discuss some of what I read. The first ones were incredibly nice to read, I remember to this day the first book not related to school that I ever read: an adaptation of Aesop's fables to children. Since I got the basics, He then showed me another writer that liked to use fables: La Fontaine. They were good too, but I admit that I had a harder time relating to them.

Thus it was my first friendship in all eight years of my life. And with an old person, go figure.

The following years were not very different. Some flogging here and there for whatever cause they made up, a broken arm I had to mend myself (say what you want, but the impromptu cast I made with leftovers from Dudley's tree house and a few strands of torn linens did the job).

By the time I was eleven I was seriously debating being a street peddler. Really, they lived a better life than I did. Basically, they had the same things I had (meager meals, often with some items so beyond the due date that it was a wonder I was still alive), no roof above your head (well I did have one, but come on, I had to live with the Satan's proxies! He.. It is a lawyer you know?) and the highest perk of all: they didn't have to endure flogging Friday! That had to be worth all the miserable life they lead, hadn't it?

After my birthday, however, things went straight to hell. Owls of the most different plumages and character (yes, owls do have character if you didn't know) started flying through the Dursleys' household and leaving a letter on my lap. When I was about to read the first one they sent, Uncle Vernon took it away forcibly from me and immediately locked me in my cell. Said "These ruddy owls are the reason you won't leave there, even to eat! Tell them to go away and I'll let you eat, if not: have luck looking for where the strays find their sustenance boy!"

Oh yeah... I was below a stray dog. Several shades below.

So, starving, I was allowed to leave that godforsaken cubicle from hell to tell the "ruddy owls" to leave, otherwise their recipient would be fainting due malnutrition. Never mind that I have never quite grasped the concept of a second language, a human one at that, my uncle wanted me to turn owlish proficient in a matter of minutes.

But hey, I'm a freak right? Supposed to do freakish things like asking my ornithologically inclined mail bearers to just "sod off" and not disturb the numbing naturalness of the Dursleys' household.

Let it be noted that I did try. Did my best to hoot, squack, anything that could remotely signify "go away, my uncle is in fact one of Satan's proxies, with an office in the ninth circle of Hell. He won't be promoted to the eighth circle if he's seen with such God aligned owls, will he?"

Needless to say, they didn't listen to me. In fact, the number of owls arriving at the front yard seemed to multiply tenfold.

After shrieking in indignation, two proxies of hell's less warmer climate and their spawn dragged me back to the house. They promptly sealed every entrance they could and told me to start packing. We would be traveling to the coast, "spend a few days in brother Callum's shack near Hastings", he said.

It was a surprise really. Uncle Vernon gets pissed off and we go traveling? With me in tow?

It had to be too good to be true.


	2. The Proper Idiocy of Mankind cont

The Proper Idiocy of mankind (cont.)

Indeed, it was just too fucking good to be true. We packed, well, I packed whatever I had, plus all of the Dursleys' belongings – or what passed as traveling gear for them. I still don't know why Dudley wanted to bring his video games, vcr, and TV. When I motioned to get his backpack as well, which was bulging by the way, he wouldn't let me. The smell of said backpack was the same as his bedroom: sweaty and something... _else. _At that moment I just thanked to the winds for small mercies.

You think I got it wrong, didn't you? Should've said God in there somewhere. Why would I? The almighty motherfucker sent me to live with Satan's proxies. Don't rightfully know what I did in a past life to deserve it, ergo, didn't feel I deserved the punishment. So, excuse me if I don't care too much for the all-powerful absentee landlord.

Nothing eventful happened during the trip. Dudley spent all the time playing with his game boy till the batteries ran out. Aunt Petunia made some inane comments about the weather or some "pastoral" scene here and then. Vernon, well, whatever he said I couldn't understand nor had I any mind to. I was just too damn glad to be doing something else for once that didn't include hard labor.

It took hours to get to Hastings, and another absurd length of time to get to Uncle Callum's shack.

And man, a ramshackle slum it was.

It was located in the coast, of course, and in a small plot of land so far away from anything remotely close to resemble civilization that I thought, with some righteous glee I might add, that Dudley's electronics would _never_ work in a place like this. First of all, it didn't have electricity. No power outlets of any kind. The contents of the shack seemed to come straight out of a mid nineteenth century hermit's cottage. A small stove sat in one corner of the living room. Make that the only room in the house, save the bedrooms and the WC. Did I mention that there wasn't plumbing at all? If we wanted water, there was a rusty public pump in the vicinity, thank you very much. No showers of course, and no bathtub either. If we wanted a bath, it had to be manual. As the Dursleys had their own personal slave, it was my chore to walk the two miles to get the water, put it on the stove, make a fire and heat it so the tub-o-lards' could bathe in hot water.

Y'see, you might think that it was all _awful_. To me, doing these chores was, in fact, a measure of freedom. Sure, now that I'm older, but not necessarily wiser, I understand the abuse and all that rot, but to a constantly flogged child it was a small piece of heaven _not_ having to endure the Dursleys anymore than absolutely necessary. I knew I'd be coming back to hell, but those four mile walks a day I, in all my eleven years of age, felt free.

Now, the worst thing would have been to clean the latrine. I did mention the lack of plumbing, didn't I? I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it would be I, as it behooves to an ever useful freak, to clean them. I _really_ wasn't looking for that particular chore. Thankfully, I didn't have to.

Latrines don't start smelling bad right away if you didn't know. It needs a little bit of time for the shit to assemble and decompose just for the right amount in order to be truly foul. Considering that we were in that shack for three days already, I knew that the next day I'd have to go get all of that and dump it somewhere.

Amidst my preoccupation on where, actually, to dump all that shit and worrying about the shack withstanding the storm that fell on our heads, I vaguely remembered that it was July 31st. Yes ladies and lads, it was my birthday.

I had long despised that date. Save for the old and smelly sock I once received from Uncle Vernon, nothing worthwhile happened in that particular day. It was just another day, like any other. Same zoo family (The puce colored Walrus, The overfat Seal and The whinging Mare), same chores, same everything.

The brief spell of sadness came over me but was gone in a moment. After all, where would I dump the amount of shit that such a zoo could produce? I admit, I was stumped.

Then, my savior came. He, like that Jesus guy, had a beard. Also like that Jesus guy, he made miracles (I actually hoped him to turn Dudley's hands into fins, but the pig's tail was a nice touch). Unlike that Jesus guy, he sure as hell was intimidating. Nine feet tall, rotund like a hippopotamus and batshit crazy.

Turns out he came from "my" world was well. Even asked me if I'd wondered where my parents "learned it all". Uh... what? As far as I knew, I had a drunkard for a father and a whore for a mother. Did it meant that "my" world was a big ass brothel?

We spent a few more minutes in that slum where my giant savior dutifully intimidated the zoo (going so far as bending a double-barreled shotgun with _one_ hand. Boy, was I impressed!) as well as disabusing the brothel notion I began to create in my mind. After exchanging of a few more pleasantries, Hagrid, for that was his name, spirited me away to Diagon Alley where he explained what truly happened with my parents, who I really was and what was this "world" I suddenly found myself dragged into.

Turns out my world came straight out of those telly movies my aunt used to watch. Fairies, centaurs, goblins and, of course, a big kahuna (Dumbledore) and a crazy badass motherfucker (Voldemort) that was, unsurprisingly, after my hide.

The answer to the universe may be forty-two but wanna know my version? Screw Harry Potter. Screw him over and over again cause the freak sucker sure as hell can handle it. That will solve this universe's sodding problems.

For all intents and purposes I should have been just as crazy as the snakefaced psychopath that was out to get me and, to some extent, I was. Then, y'know, I always thought that it was wrong, the way the Dursleys' treated me. Oh no, not at first. Took me years of analysis and a great deal of outside help to understand that, even then, I loathed it all and it was alright to feel that way. It was wrong, plain and simple, what they did to me.

Oddly enough, it wasn't some higher moral, or virtue that "saved" me from going "dark" as they say. It was hate. Pure, undiluted hate. I hated being beaten for no reason. I hated having burns all over my hands and arms tending the zoo. Hated the embarrassment of going to school and not even knowing my name to answer the call. Because I hated it so much, I couldn't fathom making another human being suffer the same misery I had to endure day in, day out. I just wasn't... built that way.

In any case, Hagrid helped me getting whatever I needed to go to Hogwarts, this world's "premier" educational institution. Later on you'll know it was pure codswallop, there were others that were leagues better than Hogwarts, but our particular brand of nazis made the sheep (aka people) believe that lie and live merrily with it.

Meeting Hedwig was one of the greatest moments of my life, way higher than apparating to a rooftop at eight years-old. Above those were killing the scaredy snake (come on, he fucked up his soul 'cause he was afraid of dying), getting married, and having little kids yelling and running in the house. Yup, I'm a romantic at heart, but we'll get there eventually. Nothing and no one so wound up as I was would get anywhere if I didn't change.

Back to Hedwig. She was the first experience with loyalty I had in my life and for that I'll be forever grateful to that snowy owl. Never judged me (and she could, I swear!). Nipped my fingers rather hard sometimes, if she was annoyed or wanted food, but never, _ever_, judged me. I like to think that, for her, I was just another person that happened to care for her wellbeing and she in turn, cared for mine. She was an oasis of companionship to a well parched orphan.

It finally came the time to board the Hogwarts' Express. By that time, the winds of change gained momentum and didn't arrest ever since that overwhelming September 1st, 1991.

To sum up, since we won't be hearing from the zoo that passes for my family again in this tale, they abused me to their heart's content. Had they known that, once I turned 17 I would be a filthy billionaire by muggles' standards, I am sure they'd have treated me better. I thank them for their unblemished honesty, however. They hated me and acted on it, no questions asked. True colors and all that jazz. They showed me the infinite capacity mankind has to be cruel to your fellow man, or children as the case may be; a lesson I was fortunate to lean early on in life. I could've been generous to them once I turned seventeen for that lesson alone, but no one in their right mind awards abuse, nor cruelty.

My wife and I (for it was she that planned our "revenge") still laugh at the memory, captured by well placed omnioculars in the Dursleys' household. Their ashen complexion, the wide eyes, the regret for failing short in their own humanity.

We'd just sent them my statement of account, along with a few well known verses of muggle poetry. Right next to the number (a few billions) it read: "For all sad words of tongue and pen, The saddest are these, 'It might have been'."

A fitting closure to a greedy zoo, wouldn't you say?

A/N: The quote at the end is by John Greenleaf Whittier, which I recommend if you have the time. I also recommend Partners, by Muggledad which can be found here at . Well written and plausible if a bit rushed (even though it had to be, as the author clarified and I heartily agree). Oh, and please let me know if you like reading this or if it's utter garbage and I should just toss it away.


	3. Intermission

Orphan's Musings – Chapter 3

Intermission: Sleepwalking and Dreaming

Ok, last time was a very, and I mean a very _brief_ recount of what happened with my while I was living with Satan's proxies. I'd have to return there for the summer hols but it was just more of the same, the big highlights came that first year and then the abuse toned down immensely.

Before I get to the retelling of my time during the most prestigious of Europe's educational institutions I think that some things need to be said about me that will help understand the rest of the story and may, perhaps, shed some light in my previous musings.

First and foremost: I am _not_ and _never_ been an idiot. Naïve? Nah, got that beaten out of me mighty fast as you may imagine. Second, and almost as important, I am a _hell_ of an actor. Had to be, really; my continued survival depended on that.

I was a master of under-performing(on purpose). Had to make Satan's proxies somewhat happy and they were happy if I was miserable (or appeared to be). Hence, they never knew what grand time I had in the local library with Mr. Collins. Took a liking to reading as it is fairly obvious; going there almost every spare moment I had it was bound to happen sometime.

Fables, as stated already, was a good start. They get you thinking, y'know? It's Anaximenes' incarnate (or in paper) in a feedback loop. One thing that always gave me great pleasure was in how the authors of said fables were so picky in choosing the animals. After a while, however, it becomes stereotyped. Monkeys were smart asses or wise beyond measure,donkeys were the comedy relief (incidentally, they eat pretty much every damn thing in the universe without a care in the world. Remind you of anyone?), lions were the noblest of all, magnanimous in their strength both physical and of character, whereas snakes were always a deceiving bunch. Rats were always cowards, but some did find their redemption. Bats too, but those never got redemption of any kind as far as I remember.

When I look back at my life, there are so many instances where I can relate to one or many of the fables I read in that library.

Anyways, after the fables came the mythology. Greek mythology to be precise. Now, _these_ were great. All tales were enthralling and, much like the fables, they always had some kind of moral lesson thrown in there somewhere.

Take Medusa for example. A beautiful seer that, seeing the debauchery and villainy of her time, chose to remain "pure". Well, the Gods took offense to that. What, a damn mortal thinking they have control of their lives? Hell fucking no. So Poseidon goes, rapes her and, because she isn't pure anymore, she is thrown out of the Delphi oracle. Athena, whom we all generally think so highly of, adds insult to injury: the damn slag dare be beautiful and enthrall a god ergo she must be punished. Athena then takes away all her beauty, making her face look like a swine and her most notable trait, her hair, turns it into a bunch of venomous snakes. Not satisfied, she then changes her eyes so that whatever Medusa's looking will turn to stone. She is promptly banished to an island where Perseus, son of Zeus and a human, eventually chops off her head so that his mother won't have to marry a king that had his sights on her.

The Gods truly were a fucked up bunch, huh?

Now compare my life, and that of Medusa. Thankfully, the self-ascribed God in this scenario (Dumblefuck) didn't want me "spoiled", so he banished me to the Hell's closest branch in England, aka the Dursleys. Not satisfied, the sesquicentennial poofter forces me to go there, every fucking summer, because of some obscure blood wards that were the only thing keeping me safe. Problem is that he never continued the sentence, y'know? Safe from who? Voldemort? Ok, snakeface never went there. Big effing deal. Satan's proxies were there and since they like blood or anything blodd related, I wasn't necessarily safe from them, was I? Thankfully, with time, I was able to tame my snakes and correct my eyesight and there were no demigods after my head, just a psychopath with self delusions of grandeur.

Moral of both stories: there will always be manipulators fucking you over and over and there will always be idiots that dare be born and try to be free.

I am telling all of these fantastical stories so that you can understand my dreams, or nightmares as is the case. By the time I was reaching eleven I had constant nightmares of being imprisoned in a closed space, a huge, enormously brilliant green light engulfing my view and the sensation of absolute terror as there was no escape whatsoever. There was never an escape because there was no place on this earth where I was safe. Point to Dumbledore, making a child suffer psychological trauma virtually all his life. Fucker.

After the nightmares I usually woke up sweating buckets, I could swear that death had warmed up and it was only getting warmer. I wasn't wrong on that account, was I?

There you have it, in a very hyperbolic manner, my psychological state. The upcoming years would increase my paranoia tenfold, of course, but some sucker had to be this century's scapegoat and the powers that be chose me to do the job.

You should see the job's description. "No liberty or free will shall be withheld by the employee at any time. Should the employee seek freedom, of any kind, he shall be imprisoned for his self preservation. The employee cannot chose what or who he is to fall in love. In fact, his occupation will lead him to martyrdom, so let's just allow him the bare minimum to exist until he fulfils his destiny".

Two things that make this job an entirely unenthusiastic one: first, you have no free will, ergo, every one does what is best _for_ you but you have no say in the matter. Not really fair, is it?Two: you are a damn martyr. And you know what happens to martyrs, don't you?

They fucking die.

A/N: This was bit shorter than usual, but it seemed a good stopping point. Also, the delay was caused by a huge test I had this week so I crammed up as much as I could and the story suffered. Please also note that my original plan for this story was shot to hell and there should be many more chapters than previously envisioned. Recommendation for this chapter: anything by canoncansodoff.


	4. Year One: The Sorting Hat

A/N: This chapter is very different from the previous ones. It is more detailed and, perhaps, a touch unfocused but rest assured, there is a method to my madness. You'll see that my depiction of one of Ireland's prominent mythical figures is not nice. She wasn't nice at all; actually she was a right mean bitch in my opinion. This also marks the tone for the rest of the story, I'll be making inroads in this "primitive" Hogwarts quite often to make a point or simply enrich the canvas I'm painting here. Do let me know if you enjoyed it or hated it; constructive criticism, as always, is welcomed, as well as compliments. Flames not really, but if what I wrote offends you in any way, do let me know and _why_ so I can respond properly.

* * *

Now that first year was something that an eleven year old wouldn't forget. The fables, myths, and everything in between paled in comparison. After hours on a train that common folk could not see, propelled by nothing save that heretofore unknown force that "my" folk labeled as magic, I arrived in a scene of dreams… and nightmares.

Tall, imposing, proud. A shining beacon of… what exactly? I didn`t know, but seeing that illuminated construction, surrounded by water and forest alike, I felt that salvation had to be close by.

It was imbued by those feelings, those indescribable little (or not so little in this case) things that make our life worth living. There was a reason _why_ I had suffered so much for so long. There _had_ to be. I came on top, I proved myself worthy to some deity and they… _it_ took pity on me. Damn, how I wished at the time that someone took pity on me.

It was with no amount of pain that I inform that it wasn`t to be. Right off the bat I get a teacher that hates me for resembling his arch-nemesis who was, coincidentally enough, my father. A teacher behaving like a whiny kid when he learns that pudding is not coming his way for previous ill behavior. Don`t get me wrong, my father was a damn idiotic bully at times and his targets suffered his immaturity. We could chalk that up to being a teenager, a pureblooded arsehole at that, but he should`ve known better.

Alas, he managed to humiliate a teenager so thoroughly and in doing so, managed to maim a man`s entire psyche till his very last breath. I wonder, someday, when I am no longer in this world and if there is an afterlife; how I`d go about telling that to my father? "Well done arsehole! You managed to instill so much hate in someone that it completely messed up his mind! He felt justified in lashing out at every turn against your own damn offspring! Now, why the fucking hell didn`t you go to Tahiti and let this world go down under as it should?" Well I don't believe in the afterlife but it would certainly be filled with interesting conversations. I digress, however.

The teachers at Hogwarts were as idiosyncratic as the school itself. They were the archetypal figures: the severe, but competent teacher; the oily-crooked-nose bat from hell; the little intelligent and excitable gnome; a stuttering incompetent and last, but not least, a deranged woman whose classroom resembled more like the carbon copy of a 1960's hippie's wildest dream. We always made the most far-fetched hypotheses as to why she had so much incense burning in that class. I am particular to the opinion that she somehow invented or got access to a special, magically enhanced crop of cannabis. I mean, if you had access to such a potent hallucinogen its fumes could be just as potent. The presence of the incense fits perfectly in this case, doesn't it?

Dumbledore was in a league all of his own. He was the picture perfect, goody two shoes wizard that the muggles create in their minds. Long white beard, pointed hat and so powerful that everyone else knew about him. Not only that, he accumulated the posts of Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot (the big kahuna at a political body that comprises both the functions of the House of Lords and Parliament for the muggle minded), Chairman of the International Confederation of Wizards (Secretary-General of the UN for muggles) and… anticlimactically enough, Headmaster of the most distinguished wizarding school ever known. Guess what post he occupied more often? Why; Headmaster of course!

Can you believe that crap?

The man is the _de facto_ dictator of the wizarding world and he chooses, willingly, to shirk his duties as a politician in favor of "guiding the youth" to greener pastures that those of the preceding generation.

There's something rather rotten in the state of Denmark, isn't there? It would take some time to learn exactly how it was an unweeded garden of things rank and gross.

There I was, after that short boat trip from the edge of the lake to the moor in the west side entrance of the castle. I wasn't all that sophisticated to tell you the truth, but was still interesting. Once again the shitstain that was a disgrace to dragons everywhere made an appearance. I shot him down of course but something was already niggling in my brain at the time. In the span of a few short hours he was openly confrontational towards me, as soon as he found that I didn't share his bigotry. I'd have to watch myself around him lest I do something idiotic that could cost me a lot more than what I was willing to pay.

Now, one of the few unique things in Hogwarts was the sorting hat. At this point I wasn't much shocked by these small things but took some pleasure in them. Hey, anything is better than what I had before, so like a drowning man I latched onto this solitary plank of happiness with all the fierceness that I could. The sorting itself didn't take much time and I quite enjoyed the process. It's not every day you get the opportunity to don a god-knows-how-old artifact from the founders of the school after all.

The Sorting Hat's story is a nice one and I'll share it with you because it will shed some light to the overall climate and perceptions of the magical world. At least I hope so.

Y'see, when Hogwarts was founded there was no systematical, formal education of magic. At the time it was still studied much like it was in Merlin's time, from master to apprentice and the education was entirely oral, not a damn thing was put down on paper. That is easily explained by the fact that the druids of the time, the "real" wizards whose legacy is Hogwarts, interpreted magic not as something that can be understood properly if you break it down to its constituent parts. To them one had to commune with nature, learn from and with it. It is living and whimsical, that's why control is so important. Magic, in its basest form, is the capacity that certain individuals possess to look around the same scene that everyone else does but you, the wizard, can see things in there that other people can't and above all, can interact with them. No amount of training will make others learn about it. Either you are born with it, or you aren't. End of story.

Why then would four magical humans get together and create a school of magic? If you give it a second thought you'll see that it isn't as strange as it may seem. The muggle world was encroaching fast on the magical lands and secreting the vast tracts of land owned by magicals was impractical. Too much power was needed to do it and while they were far more organized than their muggle counterparts, there was still enough conflict among them to prevent such an accord to ever take place.

Second, and if you remember your history lessons well, espousing a different lifestyle was a matter of life and death at that time. The druids and everything they represented were systematically hunted down as they felt no desire or inclination to consort with muggles and their inane power struggles that, quite unfortunately, continue to this day.

It'll do well to remember that, given the way magic was understood at the time, it was mostly uncontrolled and the druids found their apprentices mostly by happenstance rather than by purpose.

A small sect of nomadic druids, originally came to British lands fleeing from the whims and incessant disputes of Queen Maeve. Power hungry that she was, she turned for them and asked for help, even to the point of offering sexual favors in exchange of their help in battle against her foes.

The druids had often aided Maeve though council and general good advice, but they drew the line there. One thing was to give advice to a Queen, quite another to help her in battle and killing people on her behalf. Uncomfortable with their position and knowing that a negative reply to the Queen's summons would spell no end of trouble for them, they chose to fled her lands and chose the direction of Ulster as it was far enough to be out of immediate harm and they would still be able to commune with nature as they've been doing for untold years.

They could not anticipate the Queen's ambition, however. Driven by an irrational need to supplant her then husband, Ailil, she waged war against Ulster for a mere bull. Yes lads and ladies, a woman went into war because she was one bull poorer than her husband. Granted it was one hell of a bull, but still. In any case, the puerile ambitions of the queen now posed a real threat to the druids that went to Ulster precisely to avoid her presence. Communing with nature, one of the druids had a vision of a young man that would hold all the queen's armies by himself but exactly how that was to be, they didn't know.

Desperation, I reiterate, is an incredible motivator. The queen's army was fast approaching Ulster and they didn't have enough time to flee as the only way out of there was by ship and into the continent or Scotland that was closer. Time was needed to prepare for the trip, a time they didn't have. Pressed by his peers to make a decision, the leader of this small sect decreed that they were to go forth; find this young hero and help him as best they could, but they would not, in any circumstance, to enter battle.

Cúchulainn was indeed a hero, but he wouldn't ever come close to beating an entire army without the aid of the druids. Empowered by several obscure rituals the young man slaughtered the queen's army and forced her to retreat. As a side note, it was a pyrrhic victory for her: she got the bull in the end, but at too high a cost.

After the battles were over and cooler heads once more prevailed, the druids opted to flee once again, taking this temporary peace as the sign that their kind was not welcomed as it once were in Ireland lands. This is where things get muddled all over. Maine Gryffindor, Eithe Ravenclaw, Fergus Slytherin, and Deichtine Hufflepuff were a clique of sorts inside that druidic sect. Very close friends and sharing a deeper connection with magic than most, they were adamant that going to the continent would make whatever they faced in Ireland tame in comparison. Dissension spread all over the place and the leader was once more pressed to decide the future of his flock. While the vast majority wanted to put as much distance as they could between them and this now unwelcoming land, the four friends found a handful of supporters, most of them young as themselves.

The leader saw that no consensus could be achieved; both sides were too entrenched in their views on what they should do for their futures. Magic chose not to help him this time and no visions were forthcoming as to what was the best alternative. For all his years and wisdom, he trusted the young druids to pursue their calling. In the end he simply told them all: "I am far too old in body to desire another struggle or suffer the whims of petty mugglefolk. Though my spirit is still young I have seen too much bloodshed and destruction to seek yet another adventure. I will lead those that would follow me to the woods of Saxony as I know there is a settlement in there much like ours that would give us a place to call home. However, if others choose differently I trust your abilities to know what is best for you". It is said that at that moment he turned to the four younglings and told them the last words the four pupils would ever hear from their leader: "You four are more attuned to nature and its whims than any I have ever found in my long life. Now, however, your future strays from a life of contemplation and communion to one of leadership and responsibility. I have no doubt in my mind that those following you four will turn to you all for guidance." The old man paused and turned to the starry sky. "Amongst those is my daughter and all I can ask for her is what I'll demand from you four for all those that follow your way. Protect them. Protect our ways. Do not let your abilities obscure good sense and refuse counsel. And always, to the best of your abilities, help muggles understand ourselves for no tolerance can be achieved if ignorance is allowed to fester. Our enlightenment _is_ also, their enlightenment. Our salvation _is_ their salvation."

The leader's daughter frowned at that comment and poised a question to her father. "Have your dreams warned you of something father? The times are troubled, yes, but what worries you so"?

The old, ocean blue eyes watered and a few tears fell while he leaned on his staff. "Ah daughter of mine! Dreams are not forthcoming these days, sometimes I wonder if I strayed so far from the path that nature refuses to talk to me anymore. I still hear her, but it is now a whisper, not the clear voice of a score of solstices ago. If I had one, I'd dream of dining with Maeve along with Borgruk, that witty goblin, while discussing the virtues of the bow as opposed to the staff with Solis, the centauress, or the nuances between elfin wine if made with a touch of raspberries or not with Dibby that most charming elf." He then turned to the entire sect and told them to get ready as they would leave at the first rays of sunlight.

The sect was divided at last. The young ones took a ship to the Scottish highlands while the rest went on to Saxony. It didn't take much time for the predictions of the young to become a reality and once more due to mugglefolk. The Massacre of Verden or The Blood Verdict of Verden was a side-effect of the Saxon wars waged by Charlemagne. Saxon leaders were tortured and forcibly converted to christianism, undergoing their baptism in the Aller river while their king at the time, Widukind, fled to Denmark. Coincidentally, Widukind was also the leader of the druidic settlement based in Verden.

It is said that the Aller river turned bloody in that day. The whole faction of the sect that fled Ireland to Saxony was slaughtered; the Christians, unable to coexist with the pagans exacted their price in druids' blood.

Meanwhile, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin were hard at work in the Scottish highlands. It was a blessing in many ways: endless tracts of forests to wander and commune, plenty of materials to build modest housing; grains to make bread and a riveting magical atmosphere composed the days of the young druids.

The time passed and the druids flourished in all aspects. Fergus was particularly adept at healing potions founding the first magical apothecaries in Scottish lands to provide a source of income for the settlement. He also served as a healer, making no distinction between muggle or magical. Due to the nature of his job and mostly due to the specific circumstances in which some ingredients had to be harvested, Fergus had to stay in the forest with no form of shelter for days and, quite often, under the inclement downpours or the blistering sun. He presented this problem to his friends and all agreed that a hat would be a perfect solution and each gave their contribution. Hufflepuff managed the livestock and chose the leather of fiercest bull she could find. She blessed it with nature's endurance; it would not wear, nor tear for all time. Gryffindor, always in high spirits, went a step further and blessed it with nature's whims and moods so that whenever his friend was out in the fields harvesting he would never lack for company. Ravenclaw, the smartest of them all, made it so it would always be a perfect fit, and it would feel always comfortable, be it under the sun or rain and lastly, Slytherin himself blessed the hat with a way to enter the wearer's mind but always to help and never to intrude.

The sorting hat was "born" and all firsties now have to wear Slytherin's hat before going their merry way.

All this is, of course, in "Hogwarts, a History" but while my dear wife can recite the whole brick-thick tome by hear...

Swat!

"Honey, I swear that one more of those swats on my head and I'll turn balled before I am forty!"

"Don't you go making fun of my books or my memory then! It is not my fault you were a lazybones at Hogwarts!"

"Good thing I have you with me to set me straight then, isn't it?"He said, pulling Hermione to his lap and kissing her collarbone lightly.

"Yes and don't you forget it mister!" She said in a tone of mock severity, reveling in their banter. She lifted her lips to once more be drowned in her husband's wonderful kisses but stopped just a hairsbreadth away from his mouth. "Did I tell you that you are so damn sexy when you tell stories like that?"

He was now sporting a grin a mile wide. "No, but you can always…"

"Daaaaad! Jason is being mean again!"

Both of them sighed at the same time.

"Raincheck?"

"Definitely, Mr. Potter, and I _will_ collect it tonight. Now go see what our little miscreants are up to while I finish lunch."

Hermione got up from his lap and went to the kitchen. It wouldn't do for the children to miss a meal just because their parents were feeling randy after all.


End file.
